Chapter six- Eshe
PAST
It took him three days to call me.
When he did, I let the phone ring until just before the voicemail picked up. I didn’t want to seem pressed—even though not answering right away was one of the hardest things I’d done in a while. I was anxious as fuck.
“Hello,” I said, butterflies dancing in my belly.
“Hey, Life,” he said.
The way he drawled my name in that deep Southern tone had me creaming in my panties.
“Hey, Donte. I see you waited the customary three days to call,” I teased, trying to keep my voice playful.
“Nah, pretty. I’m grown. I don’t play them games. I’ve just been busy.”
“Okay, Mr. Grown. Busy doing what?” Yeah, I was being nosy. So what?
He chuckled. “I’m in law school. Interning at McMullen and Booth.”
That caught me all the way off guard. I’d definitely misjudged his character by his appearance. I would’ve been less surprised if he said he was a dope boy—he had the swagger of one.
“No way. I’m at Howard, Franklin, and Gandy. But I’m not in law school. I’m a paralegal.”
“That’s what’s up. We should get together and find out what else we got in common.”
The way he said “common” didn’t sound like he meant to discuss our goals and dreams. It sounded like he meant to fuck. I licked my dry lips and pressed my thighs together.
“I’m down. When are you free, Mr. Busy?”
“What you doing right now?”
“Nothing.” Any other time, I would’ve lied—pretended to be busy.
Couldn’t let a man have full access to me.
They start thinking they got ownership. But I’d been thinking about fucking this man since the café.
And it had been three weeks since I’d had sex with another human. I wasn’t about to pretend.
“Meet me at the court on 16th Street, South Side. You know where that’s at?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be there for two hours. We can grab something to eat after.”
“Okay,” I replied simply.
Then silence.
“Well damn. No ‘bye’?” I muttered, but didn’t let his rudeness bother me. I jumped up and did my about-to-get-some-new-dick twerk in the middle of the living room floor.
Let me stop and go wash my pussy.
After my shower, I already knew exactly what I wanted to wear.
I slid into a black, tight midi skirt that stopped just below my knees and an oversized white tee—because white looked good against my brown complexion and made my titties look even bigger.
It hung off one shoulder. I left my panties in the drawer because, easy access.
I slid my feet into a pair of low-top, snow-white Chucks. Ran shea butter and coconut oil through my locs and tied them in a bun. Face cream. Lotion. Clear lip gloss. A little mascara. I took a moment to admire myself in the mirror.
Casual like I wasn’t trying, but sexy. Just the way I liked it.
I grabbed my keys, my phone, and slid my debit card, ID, and two gold foil packages into my bra. I thought about calling Sinica, then thought better of it.
I pulled up at the court at 6:13—about an hour and twenty minutes after we’d talked. It was crowded as hell. There was eye candy everywhere, male and female. People loitering, dancing, laughing, talking.
Normally, I was nervous in crowds of people I didn’t know. But right now, I was too anxious to care.
I couldn’t spot Donte right away, but I wasn’t about to push through a crowd of sweaty Negroes to look for him. I sent him a text letting him know I was there and took a seat at the end of a set of unused bleachers.
I watched the game, not really knowing what was going on.
Kept checking my phone. Got instantly irritated because he wasn’t texting back fast enough for my liking.
He knew I was coming. He invited me. He should’ve been waiting.
I shouldn’t have to be searching. He had thirty minutes—then I was gone.
I wasn’t about to sit in the hot-ass Florida sun for nobody.
I hated that sticky feeling dried sweat left on my skin more than I wanted to fuck him. That said a lot.
After about five minutes of switching between people-watching and pretending to understand basketball, someone spoke behind me.
“Hey, how you doing?”
I rolled my eyes before I even turned around, ready to dismiss whoever it was. Being a big girl meant a certain type of man always assumed I was accessible—to everyone. Even the ugly ones.
I already guessed, based on his tone, that he wasn’t my type. Probably had a mouth full of golds and breath like wet pennies.
But when I turned around?
I came face-to-face with the living, breathing personification of Aganju—the warrior king. I’d taken a Yoruba religions class for the culture a few months back, and this was what I imagined the African deity looked like.
Tall. Dark. Fatal.
About 6’5”, maybe 240 pounds. Skin the color of exotic black licorice.
“Damn,” slipped from my mouth as he licked his full lips. I wanted to follow that path with my own tongue.
My reaction brought a cocky grin to his bow-shaped lips. And he was damn well entitled to it. He was beautiful.
“Damn,” I said again, barely breathing.
The universe had really been showing out with these fine-ass men this week. First Donte. Now him.
“What’s your name?” I asked, offering my hand.
He took it, didn’t shake—just held it. I liked the rough feel of his callouses against my soft skin. I peeked at his fingernails. Clean. Thank God.
“Oakley,” he said. “What’s yours, beautiful? How you doing this evening?”
I fought the urge to cringe at the sound of his voice. Something about it was just… off. Flat. But I didn’t trip. I could solve that issue by keeping my pussy in his mouth.
He licked his lips again. I bit back a moan. I was doing too much but I was horny.
“I’m good, and you?”
“I’m decent. Ain’t never seen you around here before.”
I was about to explain I lived about 45 minutes away when I heard my name.
I turned and saw Donte standing behind me, shirtless, in white basketball shorts and fresh white Nikes.
Damn.
My thoughts scrambled. These Negroes had me forgetting all my vocabulary words.
“Hey,” I said, ignoring the scowl on his face and imagining my tongue gliding over his abs.
“Abs look real good in all black,” I thought to myself.
“You came to see him or me?” Donte asked, nodding at Oakley.
I looked back at Oakley. Equally fine. But he couldn’t talk dirty to me with that nasally voice.
“You,” I said, giving Oakley a little shrug that translated to, sorry, no pussy for you , and turned all my attention to Donte.
He looked so good all sweaty, I wasn’t even mad no more.
“Now that we solved that,” he said. “Lemme holla at you over here for a second.”
He turned and walked off like he expected me to follow.
His energy was off. I didn’t know how I felt about that or the attitude. He was the one that hadn’t texted me back. Shouldn’t I be the one mad?
But I followed him anyway.
He was damn near half a block ahead by the time I caught up. He was leaning against a red-and-black Dodge Charger, mugging me like I stole something from him.
“What’s the matter with you?” I asked once I was close enough.
“I think that shit back there was disrespectful,” he said, calm on the surface—but his eyes said otherwise.
“But I—” was all I got out before he grabbed me by the waist, pulled me into him, and kissed me deep. Tongue long. Aggressive.
I acted accordingly and sucked it. Tasted spearmint gum.
His hand slid up my skirt.
When he came in contact with bare ass he snatched his mouth from mine.
I stood there dazed. Ain’t no man ever kissed me like he had just kissed me. My hands were shaking.
“Where your panties, Eshe?”
“I left them home.”
“Fuck, shawty. You ‘bout to cost me a grip.”
“How so?” I asked, confused.
He didn’t answer. Just grabbed my hand, dragged it down his abs, into his boxers, and stopped it when it landed on his hard dick.
Damn.
I traced the length of it with my fingers. Nine? Ten? Definitely thick.
“Stroke that shit,” he growled, kissing my neck.
“We shouldn’t be doing this here,” I whispered, even as my grip tightened.
“But you are doing it,” he spat.
“Donte!” someone called from behind us and I damn near fell backward from how fast I snatched my hand away.
“You got me out here acting out of character,” I said, breathless.
He laughed. “Stop lying. You out here with no drawls on, but you shy?”
I didn’t even respond. Just stood there, because he wasn’t lying.
“I’m coming!” he yelled to whoever had called him.
Then he turned back to me, ran his knuckles over my cheek. “Go wait at the bleachers. I’ll be done in about twenty minutes. But keep them other niggas out your face.”
His tone was flat, but I caught the warning in his eyes—dark and stormy.
I should’ve said, You don’t control me, but I didn’t. His jealous, possessive act turned me on.
So I kept my mouth shut and followed him back.
My grandmama would have been ashamed of me.